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“Skin needling?”
John glanced up from the mirror where he was examining the dull red lines that marked his shoulder to see Sherlock in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame.
“My browser history is private. Stop trying to deduce me from it.”
“You’re not a vain man. Why?”
“Why do you care?” asked John. “Going to grass me up to the Real Men Club? It’s not like I’m looking at facials, or liposuction, or that stupid thing where you put your feet in a bowl and let fish eat bits of them. I just wondered if it was viable, that’s all.”
Sherlock walked over and stood in front of him, running his fingertips across the marred skin. “Don’t you think you’re more interesting this way?” he asked.
“Thank you, that’s very flattering.”
“You know what I mean.” Sherlock gave him a smile. “It’s a map of your experiences, literally written on your skin.”
“Freak.”
“Cripple.”
John grinned and tugged his shirt closed. “I can’t afford it, anyway. Just a pipe dream. It’s nice to know someone likes it as it is. If I get more injuries you’ll have to keep cataloguing them for me, okay? Stop me getting precious about them.”
“Of course,” replied Sherlock, with a smile like the cat that got the cream. “Every scar, every bruise.”